Poetry
the game
The whistle blows loudly and there you are
kicking and screaming to an endless field
a great adventure for you to embark,
a dangerous game with no weapon to wield.
You can’t go back, there is no rehearsing
experience the moments as they come
another soul just beating and breathing
when you are afraid just hold onto mum.
When you begin your plot is unwritten
it is you who makes you who you are, and
searching the rubble like a lost kitten
will push your head further into the sand.
Head for the stars like the tips of a flame
roar over mountains, bounce over the waves
there is no book to this eternal game
today happened and tomorrow came.
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An unproductive Sunday
If I were a time or day
I’d be an unproductive Sunday
sleepy with pre-storm glow
wondering where it all goes
deadlines roar thunderous grumbles
flashing my messenger
its quarter to three
all I want is the answer
pretending to write letters
feeling the delete buttons
editing my mind
haunted by the fear
its raining outside
and I am screaming
on the inside
goaded by universal truths
weighing down my confidence
anchoring my thoughts
dreaming of the tomorrows
procrastination’s pal
is hoping for a time out
I am an unproductive Sunday
Inspired by a rather unproductive Sunday. I made a pact with myself to spend Sunday afternoons editing my NaNoWriMo novel, today I failed, as I drowned in plot and blank pages.
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words
venomous words are hard to clean
darkness taints a perfect blue sky
the photograph smudged and ruined
as the strong stench of yesterday
pulls on the chains of resentment
as her world crashes with a thud
her soul melts in the acid rain.
she made daisy chains in the park
on a pleasant suburban day
dreaming of all her tomorrows
while tomorrow lingers in the dark
wondering, how did she get here?
Hi de ho! Old friend, old neighbour
the dividing fence was her home
the promise of stability
with endless woods for her to roam
but the trap of good impressions
lit the snowball of red anger
corrupting her soul, she wants out
she wants sunshine in her picture
she wants the suburban postcard
the venomous words cannot beat her
the venomous words will not defeat her
she will scribble her daisy chains
on her suburban photograph
Inspired by the nursery rhyme ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’
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What will your legacy be?
What will your legacy be?
Someone fetch me a cup of tea
Vacant eyes in a photograph
a smile with potential to laugh
the voice quiet and unheard
the writer speaks not a word
hidden behind hazel eyes
an ocean of silent cries
make your mark on the page
own your part on the stage
you’re the lead in your story
reach for your inner glory
stretch it to the sky like a tree
what will your legacy be?
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It’s only life
Can you smell that picture?
It smells old and betrayed
burns when you look closer
The sun weighing over
the bones that climb the hill
lost girl at the crossroads
broken – social schism
rains bittersweet regret
there’s no escape button
just left, right and forward
until the end game – death.
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A new year verse
Popcorn filled the purple sky
Exploding colours, oh my
All the people cheered
To welcome in here
Another bright sparkling year
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Put Out Your Bats
Things happen.
You just don’t think they are going to happen
but they do.
A fallen hero
things happen
but then they get better
but sometimes they don’t.
I saw red bold letters
I saw yesterday on replay
I felt the sun shining
I heard clouds on the bay
Flags fell
Wishes made
Prayers barely answered
hope fell into shade
Darkness cast shadows,
against the light of humanity
but breathes of love
in the veins of a global community
roared across oceans
to the place I call home.
Streets lined with cricket bats
wherever I roam.
I didn’t know you
I only knew of you
I feel the pain of losing you
because I feel the grief left by you
Things happen
Nonsensical things happen
and we all keep asking
why did it happen to you?
—
Written for Phil Hughes & Cricketing Community. I can’t say I ever followed cricket or know much of the team but what happened last week I felt in my heart just like the rest of the world. It’s just so shocking and I still can’t believe it. I had to write something.
#putoutyourbats
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sleep
she could smell the rain
It tasted like pancakes on Wednesday
the world darkened under a silver moon
Journeying into never ever land
The curtains closing
The purple haze over the city
Outside her window
Words bid her farewell
Lying still her mind runs
Tales of tomorrow
As if it were yesterday
The cyber girl of the dark
Illuminates through twilight
It’s what day?
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Live the Journey
Originally posted for 365 Days of Creating Charlie:
Dwelling inside is my inner Alice
perplexed by the choices she has to make
the Cheshire cat, his words mean no malice
but enigmatic words are hard to take.
If the destination is unknowing
than the direction doesn’t matter
when the moments in between are flowing
that is when your road begins to scatter.
So, take a jump down the white rabbits hole
stop for tea with the Hatter and the Hare
scribble and sketch all over your life scroll
for life is outside society’s square.
To be here – is the greatest game you’ll play
another decision, take it your way.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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